


Ghost Of Christmas Cas

by samslostshoe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Christmas, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 21:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samslostshoe/pseuds/samslostshoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean fucked up, he knows he did. He doesn’t need the ghost of his dead mother to point it out in some kind of perverse Christmas Carol scenario, thank you very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost Of Christmas Cas

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for hippivickyx over on Tumblr. I took her “destiel xmas” prompt and ran with it. Hope you like it, I really had fun writing it. The end gave me so many feels that it was hard to go to sleep. Happy Holidays!

Dean blows on his hands, clasped together tightly in a feeble defense against the frigid air. He presses the buzzer of the apartment building again, and again he receives no response. He spins on his heel, aimlessly letting his eyes wander down the street, blanketed in a fresh layer of soft snow, the only marks in which are his own tire tracks and footsteps. The street is silent and deserted, lights twinkling in the windows, on the trees, fences, and roofs of the quiet city street, with its haphazard grab bag of apartment buildings and residential houses. Dean can see at least four Christmas trees through windows, lighting up their respective rooms with their warm glow. He scoffs. Worst Christmas Eve in the history of ever.

Suddenly, a voice issues from the speaker. “Hello?” a sleepy-sounding male voice calls, tentative, almost.

“Kevin?” Dean asks, whipping back to face the place from which the voice is emanating.

“Yeah. Who’re you?”

“It’s Dean.”

“Dean,” Kevin says, exasperatedly, “What are you doing here?”

“That’s my business, Brainiac. Let me up, will ya?” Dean says, teeth chattering. “It’s cold as frigging Hoth out here.”

“I…yeah, sure, I’ll buzz you up, just—,” the tinny voice cuts off and the doors unlock. Dean takes the stairs two at a time to the apartment that his brother shares with Kevin Tran, resident genius/Stanford Student/cello whiz. The door to apartment 67 is answered by a giant moose.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean says, plastering a winning smile across his face as his brother glowers through the shaggy brown curtains that he calls his hair.

“What are you doing here, Dean?” Sam asks, annoyed, crossing his arms over the faded tee he’s wearing with his plaid pajama bottoms.

“‘I wuv hugz,’ really?” Dean asks, not answering as he pushes past his dumb moose of a little brother into the apartment.

“Dean,” Sam says probingly.

Dean sighs.

“I need a place to crash,” he admits. “You good with me colonizing your couch?”

“Sure,” Sam says wearily. “What’s family for?”

“You’re a doll, Sammy,” Dean says, grinning and pinching his cheek.

Sam bristles irritably. “Yeah, yeah. Linens are in the hall closet.” He turns towards his bedroom, stopping just before he reaches the door. Dean can see the muscles tense up in his back as Sam says, “Can I ask one question?”

Dean nods, and though Sam can’t see him, Dean thinks he gets it.

“Why tonight? Shouldn’t you be with—,”

Dean interrupts him. “Yeah. I should. Goodnight.”

Sam doesn’t pursue it further. He knows Dean too well, knows that when Dean doesn’t want to talk about it.

Dean really doesn’t want to talk about it.

* * *

 

The sheets are tangled around Dean’s feet so tightly that it feels like he’s duct taped from the knees down. He’s been tossing and turning for what seems like an eternity. Sighing, he swings his legs off the bed and reaches for the pocket of his leather jacket where it’s strewn on the floor, extracting, with some difficulty, his phone. The glowing numbers show that it’s 3:20 a.m. Incidentally, he has no missed calls or unread messages. Dean gets a weird, uncontrollably angry feeling in the back of his throat. It makes him feel like smashing everything around him and burning Christmas trees. But all he can do is fish the ring out of his back pocket and hurl it futilely at the wall. He lays back down and tries to keep from crying, smashing his face into the crevice of the couch and breathing evenly until he drifts off. 

* * *

Dean knows he’s dreaming immediately. He knows because his mother is standing next to him, lovely and young and dressed all in white, just as perfect as she had been in life. They’re not in any specific location, but where they are has a familiar, comfortable feeling. Dean feels like if he focused, his surroundings would turn into their old house in Lawrence, the way it was before the fire: cozy, warm, and full of joy.

Dean doesn’t feel like spending time concentrating on the background, though. That isn’t important. He can’t take his eyes of the woman beside him. Her blonde hair glows with a golden light, and stirs slightly, like she exists in a perpetual breeze. In fact, all of her seems to glow, an internal light emanating from deep inside her. She smiles softly when she notices him looking at her, eyes crinkling softly at the corners, blue eyes sparkling kindly.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she says.

Dean can’t seem to to speak, but he reaches out to her, to touch her face; his hand passes straight through her. It sends a chill down his spine, and he whispers, “What the hell?”

Her smile turns wistful. “I’m not really here, Dean.”

“Yeah, I kinda got that. What are you doing here?”

“In your dream?”

Dean nods.

“I think you know,” she says, waving her hand expansively. Past the tips of her fingers, a scene materialized. It’s their apartment, which is really small and kinda shitty, if he’s being honest. But it looks sort of nice, with its little Christmas tree in the corner and the lamp gently glowing next to the love seat. He sees himself sitting there, on the love seat, next to a man with dark hair, who has his head buried in a book, just like he was earlier this evening. Dean watches himself rub slow circles on the man’s neck, eyes focused on the TV, where A Christmas Story is playing.

Dean can feel it coming, he can see his past self opening his mouth to speak, and he wants to shout profanities at himself, run over and cover his own mouth to prevent himself from speaking. But he’s frozen, rooted to the spot, as the scene plays out before him.

“So,” Past Dean says, casually, running his fingers through the hair at the nape of Cas’s neck, “you gonna see your family for Christmas tomorrow?”

Cas sighs, setting his book on his lap. “Yes, Dean, as usual, I will be having dinner with them. Why do you ask?”

“I was just thinking maybe…well,” Other Dean looks embarrassed, showing clear signs of the trademarked Winchester discomfort with sharing feelings, “maybe this year I could come with you?”

The gentle curve of Cas’s mouth turns into a hard line, brows descending over his eyes. He doesn’t look at Dean. “You know that’s not an option,” Cas says tightly.

“Cas,” Past Dean says, and Present Dean can see as his former self struggles to keep his temper in check. “Cas, babe, we’ve been doing this thing for three years. This ain’t a fling anymore. Shouldn’t I meet your family?”

“Dean, you know how they feel about homosexuality,” Cas says, voice resigned and matter-of-fact. “They despise it; their religious ideals blind them with hatred. I have told you this, Dean.”

“Yeah, I know you have,” Past Dean says, fuming, “and it sounds like a goddamn excuse, Cas.”

Cas turns to him, eyes burning with blue fire. “Do you really think so little of me, Dean Winchester? Do you really think so little of yourself?”

Past Dean doesn’t answer, instead raising his voice and shouting, “Is it me, Cas? You embarrassed of me or something?”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice torn between disbelief and hurt, “you know I would never—,”

“Cuz I keep fucking telling you, Cas,”  Past Dean says, cutting Cas off, shouting. Dean remembers in excruciating detail how it felt, all his insecurities spilling into one another and creating a white-hot knot of rage in the center of his chest. “I keep telling you that you could do so much goddamn better than me. And you know it too, don’t you?”

When Cas doesn’t answer, Past Dean gets all up in his face, grabbing the front of his shirt in a fist. “Don’t you?” he demands, and Dean, watching himself, can see the cracks showing around the edges of his anger. He can see the insecurity, can see the little frightened man inside himself. Frightened of losing the person he loves.

Cas grabs Past Dean’s hands and pushes them off him so firmly, Dean seems to feel it even just watching. “You should go,” he says, with such finality that Dean feels like the scene should fade to black and roll credits. Instead, he gets to see his past self recoil in shock, and then, without a word, grabs his jacket and storm out of their apartment, knocking three red ornaments from the Christmas tree. When they smash, they look a little like a broken heart. Or at least that’s what Dean would think if he thought that sort of sappy bullshit.

Dean is so engrossed in this instant replay of his life that I takes him a few seconds to remember that he’s dreaming when Mary waves her hand and he scene cuts out.

They’re both quiet for a moment, she gazing at him with a complacent smile, he finding himself unable to speak. Finally, he whispers, in a hoarse voice, “Why’d you show me that?”

She just smiles at him sadly, like he already knows the answer.

“I mean,” he says, weakly, “I know it’s bad. I was an asshole.” He swallows nervously. “But we can fix it. It’s not that big a deal.”  
Mary’s smile disappears. “See for yourself,” she says, and as her fingertips brush through the air, another scene appears. It’s their bedroom, his and Cas’s. He can see the numbers on their alarm clock, glowing red in the near-dark: 3:24.

“So is this…,” he trails off, speaking to Mary but unable to keep his eyes off the figure under the covers. Cas is looking at his phone, a little, bright screen in the darkened room.

“This is the present, yes,” Mary says, answering his unfinished question.

Something’s different this time, though, Dean can feel it. He’s not frozen. Realizing this, he steps into their bedroom. It feels so real, but when he turns, he can still see Mary, watching him. He comes and stands before Cas, placing his hand in Cas’s hair. “Hey, babe,” he says softly. “What’s going on?”

Cas doesn’t seem to be able to hear or see him. Dean kind of thought it would be that way. He sighs, moving to the other side of the bed and lying down in his usual spot. He spoons up against Cas, slinging an arm around his waist, looking over Cas’s shoulder at his phone. He wishes he could be there now, wishes Cas could feel Dean against him. Dean wishes they hadn’t had that dumb fight.

He watches as Cas begins to draft a text to  ** _Dean Winchester_**.

_Dean, I am…_

He deletes it. Starts again.

_Dean, we need to…_

_Dean, my family…_

_Dean, I feel…_

_Dean, I…_

_Dean…_

Dean jerks back as Cas throws off the covers and hurls his phone at the wall. Cas takes three deep breaths, and then places his head, defeatedly, in his hands.

After a moment, he gets up and leaves the room. Dean sits quietly, waiting for him to come back. He looks at the room, with its full-size bed that forces them to sleep close together, not that they’ve ever minded. He misses this room already.

When Cas comes back, he’s holding a box. Dean’s heart starts beating at a nervous, irregular pace. Why would Cas possibly need that? Dean doesn’t want to think about the obvious reason.

Cas walks up to the closet, throwing open the door and tearing through the rack until he got to Dean’s clothes. He seized great handfuls and tore them from their hangers, throwing them, with a sense of finality, into the box.

Dean turns to Mary in horror, eyes wide in shock, only to find that she’s not there. When he turns to look back at where Cas is standing, Cas isn’t there anymore. In fact, nothing seems to be there. The closet is empty and the picture of them at the beach that was hanging on the wall is gone. Frantically, Dean looks around the room. Nothing is there. The lamps, their bedside tables, the garbage basket in the corner, the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, the dresser, all of them are gone. The wallpaper fades before his eyes, peeling off the walls and to the ground. The room grows dark and old around him, mold festering in the corners, the bed frame rusting and mattress sagging under Dean’s weight. Suddenly, the bed disappears too, and Dean falls, expecting to land on his ass on the cold, hard floor, but he just keeps falling. He feels like he falls for days, or maybe just minutes. He can’t really tell.

His descent is abruptly cut off when he lands in a nice, wooden folding-chair. He’s outdoors, and it’s sunny, with just a light breeze ruffling his hair. He’s wearing different clothes, nicer ones: a suit and tie.

Looking around, Dean sees Sam sitting beside him, also dressed nicely.

“Sammy,” he says urgently, gripping Sam’s sleeve, “what the hell’s going on?”

Sam, to his surprise, responds, if a little irritatedly. “You know what’s going on, Dean. Now shut up, you’re interrupting the ceremony.”

“Ceremony?” Dean whispers, apprehension twisting in his gut. His eyes flick up to the front of the seats, where two men stand facing each other. One is tall and thin, with dirty blonde hair, spiked up, and a nice suit. The other is, unmistakably, Cas. He looks tired and haggard, but he is smiling at the man opposite him. Between them stands what is clearly a minister. This is a wedding. This is Cas’s wedding.

This is Cas’s wedding and he’s not marrying Dean.

Dean wonders, briefly, if they even still do the “does anyone have an objection” part of a wedding ceremony, before deciding it doesn’t matter.

“I object!” he yells, pushing past Sam to the aisle.

Sam grabs at the back of his blazer, hissing, “Dean, what the hell are you doing?”

Dean just shrugs out of the jacket, dashing madly to the end of the aisle, repeating, “I object.”

The man opposite Cas mutters, in a snotty English lilt, “Cassie, who’s this?”

Dean hates the guy for calling him Cassie. It makes Cas sound like a spoiled little princess.

“No one,” Cas assures him, patting the man’s arm reassuringly. “He was just leaving.”

“Cas, please,” Dean finds himself almost begging, “Please, babe, you can’t do this. It’s me you love, Cas, not this prick,” he says, gesturing at the other man, who looks offended and amused simultaneously.

Cas’s blue eyes, normally so filled with warmth and affection, are ice-cold when he turns his gaze on Dean. “Go home, Dean,” he says, voice icy.

“Goddammit, Cas,” Dean says, reaching out to grip his shoulders. “Listen to me, please.”

“No,” Cas says coldly, calmly removing Dean’s hands from his arms. “You had your chance, Dean. Go home.”

Dean hears tittering from the amassed guests. A woman calls, “What an idiot.”

“Couldn’t see what was right in front of him,” comes a man’s voice from the back.

“Now he’s all alone,” a familiar voice says, and Dean recognizes it as Sam’s. His brother is looking at him with disappointment, shaking his head.

“Everyone always leaves you, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean turns back to see him smiling ruefully. “Now I understand why.”

Dean can feel tears well up and spill over as he whispers to himself, “No, no, this can’t be real. You’re dreaming, you’re dreaming. Wake up. Wake the fuck up!”

Before him, Cas and the Englishman exchange their vows, and Dean is once again rooted to where he is standing, powerless to stop it. When their lips meet, Dean lets out a strangled cry, and the scene dissolves. Dean squeezes his eyes shut.

He feels a hand on his cheek, gentle and thin. “Dean,” he hears his mother say, softly, as she rubs calming circles with her thumb. “Baby, it’s okay.”

Dean melts into her, burying his face in her shoulder and letting his tears drip onto her nightgown. She puts her arms around him, one hand in his hair and the other rubbing his back soothingly. She hasn’t done this since he was five, and it makes Dean feel small, while at the same time comforting him more than words can describe.

“Is that,” he begins, almost afraid to voice what he’s thinking, “really going to happen?”

Mary pulls back and looks him in the eyes. “Yes.”

Dean feels as though his heart has been torn out of his chest and put through a wood chipper. “Isn’t there anything—,”

“You can do?” Mary finishes his sentence. “Yes, Dean, there is.”

“What?” Dean asks, helplessly.

Mary just smiles knowingly, stepping back to look at him. She begins to glow with a soft, warm light. Just as the light consumes her, Dean hears her voice. “I think you know, Dean.”

* * *

Dean shoots up, gasping. He shivers, and realizes he’s covered in cold sweat. He glances over towards the corner, where, in the dim light of the dumb fake tree Sam put up in the corner, he can see the glint of metal, still lying where he’d flung it in his earlier outburst. Dean pushes himself up off the couch, crouching next to the ring. He picks it up gingerly, holding it in his flat palm. He thinks about how the ring would look on Cas’s finger, and it makes him smile.

I think you know, Dean.

Dean does know.

As he runs out of the apartment, snagging his jacket off the floor, he calls, “Merry Christmas, Sammy!” in the general direction of Sam’s bedroom.

His baby’s just waiting for him on the curb, black metal shimmering in the just-barely-dawn light. He jumps in, starting her up as quickly as possible and shooting down the street, not even pausing to fasten his seatbelt. Screw safety, he has a relationship to save.

He pulls up in front of their shitty little apartment building, and the sight makes his heart swell. It’s so unchanged. A weird, comforting sort of constant. Dean shakes the feeling off. He’s been spending way too much time with Sam, he’s getting all gooey inside.

Dean lets himself into their apartment, rushing to their bedroom. He stops in the doorway, letting himself take the scene in, whole and normal, not like the nightmarish version he’d last seen. There’s a box with his clothes in the corner, but Dean chooses to ignore it and focus on Cas instead.

Cas is sleeping on his side, facing Dean. His hair is messy and incredibly sexy, and his full lips are slightly parted. The soft light streaming through the window hits him in such a way that he seems to have a halo engulfing his body; an angel, just for Dean.

Dean kneels beside the bed, taking a deep breath before kissing Cas awake. Cas kisses back sleepily, automatically, before realizing what he’s doing and pulling away.

“Dean,” he asks, drowsy and confused, “what—,”

“Just,” Dean cuts him off, “let me talk, okay?”

Cas sits up under the covers, scooting a little farther away from Dean, but he nods.

Dean breathes out heavily. “Look, Cas, I know I fucked up. I was an asshole. I freaked out at you for no reason, and I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m so sorry. I hope you can find a way to forgive me for projecting my stupid insecure shit onto you.” Dean reaches out for Cas’s hand, and, to his surprise, Cas doesn’t protest.

Dean smiles slightly as he continues. “But that’s not the most important part, babe. I realized something tonight. I, uh, I don’t really wanna live without you. I had a dream, a nightmare, really, and the most terrifying part of it was the possibility of losing you. And, uh, well, I kinda had something better planned than this,” Dean admits, ducking his head bashfully, “but I think that it’s the meaning that counts, not how you do it.”

“Dean,” Cas says, cutting off his rambling, “What are you talking about?”

“Cas,” Dean says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the ring, “will you marry me?”

Dean watches a slew of emotions play across Cas’s face, before settling on love, on joy.

“Yes,” he whispers, voice hoarse. Dean can’t tell if it’s the early morning or something more.

Dean kisses him ferociously and Cas kisses back, laughing incredulously.

As they lay together in bed a good amount of time later, Cas dozing with his nose pressed against Dean’s warm neck, Dean thinks about Christmas. He knows that Sammy will come over, and Kevin, and Dean’s friend Charlie and his cousin Jo, and Cas’s sister Anna might too, if her plane gets in on time. They’ll open presents and eat candy and drink spiked eggnog and then they’ll all be way too drunk to do anything productive so they’ll just lay around and watch a movie or something. The girls will squeal when they announce their engagement, and Kevin will grin, and Sam will laugh and pat him on the back, and they’ll all take turns figuring out how to get it past Cas’s family. And it’ll be awesome.

But right now, this moment, is a private thing, just between him and the person who is most precious to him in the world.

It’s their own little Christmas miracle, or some cliched bullshit like that.


End file.
